You'll note that today is the last day of November, and here I am writing here. People who are finishing their novels by midnight tonight aren't writing on their blogs today, I can assure you. So that's the deal: my novel is lovely and messy and possibly interesting, but it is not 50,000 words long, or even close to it.
It's mildly upsetting to me, not finishing, but it's also a relief to not have to think about it any more. I never really settled into a rhythm--so necessary for high-volume writing--and, admittedly, there were times when I just plain blew my novel off to go to the movies or do something else. I spent a lot of my writing time on Cinema Hype, which is as it should be, but then I didn't always have the time or the brain power for 1,667 words of fiction. I feel a little like a wash-out from Top Gun, or something, but then I'm also just looking forward to the day when I can sit in front of the TV and knit or maybe write Christmas cards without experiencing novel guilt (i.e. tomorrow).